


Occam’s Razor

by Little_Lottie (tfwatson), tfwatson



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Friends to lovers (Winnix), Jealousy, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Speirs POV, endgame Winnix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwatson/pseuds/Little_Lottie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfwatson/pseuds/tfwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I kid myself that he’s mine.  I like to pretend, and he likes to pretend, but Nixon has always belonged to someone else.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occam’s Razor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinguniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinguniverse/gifts).



> Winnix is my OTP so, as tagged, this story is endgame Winnix and written from Speirs’ point of view. Its also a little bit dark (just wanted to give fair warning). I’ve tagged for Speirs/Lipton because there is one sentence of implied pre-slash but it’s a subtle blink and you’ll miss it reference.
> 
> Huge thanks to dancinguniverse for all the much needed encouragement.

I kid myself that he’s mine. I like to pretend, and he likes to pretend, but Nixon has always belonged to someone else.

 

We fuck and that’s all, but he knows that I would never share; just like he knows about the rivers of blood on my hands, saint’s blood that has leached into the creases of my fingerprints.

I’d never confront him and demand to know his secrets. If I did, he could look me straight in the eye and tell me that he’s touched no one else; but if he’s honest, his head is swarming with Richard Winters.

It hurts my pride when I see them together. Winters is a man so untouchable in Nixon’s eyes that I can’t compete with him. They’re closer than friends, closer than brothers, they’re something more. There’s a legacy underneath it all; one that’s not yet lived up to its name.

Winters and Nixon, Nix and Dick. They’re brilliant together, but they should be more. I may not be his oldest friend – I’m not even really his friend – but I know that touch is the way to Nixon’s soul. He’s so smart, but words don’t soothe him like a gentle finger trailing his collarbone or fingernails biting into the flesh of his hips. It’s not hard to tell what he needs and when.

I know how many ways a kiss can heal, but Winters doesn’t yet. Touch is the last brush stroke of their masterpiece. For now we all move on borrowed time, waiting for Winters to realize that all he needs is a touch to complete the circuit.

~

It had been a day like any other when I ran into Nixon in a commandeered house. That was when it all started; not for them - their story began God knows when – but for Nixon and I, before the two tales collided.

He’d stumbled into me, still a little drunk and looking for a reason to walk out the door and face the world. He was a mess that morning, but I respected him; his intelligence, his charm and true grit that all the soldiers trained under Sobel possessed. And what I respect, I want.

He’d regarded me through hazy eyes. “I don’t think I can deal with you right now Speirs.”

It had taken a second to blink the lust from my eyes. I’d grinned. “Yes sir.”

I barely remember the laughable expression of confusion on his face. I do, however, recall with perfect clarity how his palm was pressed to the wall, not for support but just touching like he’d hoped it would anchor him.

I circled around him - eyes locked - and hit his arm with the back of my hand. “Follow me.”

“I need to see Captain Winters,” he’d muttered, looking between me and the door like he’s torn.

“He won’t give you what you need.”

His eyes went huge. Shook his head – sluggish - whiskey slow brain struggling to understand. Whatever made up his mind, he’d followed me back through the house he’d stumbled through. Back to a silent room and a locked door.

I don’t even think he was surprised when I pressed him against the wall, my hand holding his jaw just this side of bruising, and slammed my lips to his. He’d dragged me closer by the dog tags like he wanted to be crowded, searching the hard press of a body against his.

There’d been a scramble of hands, fierce kisses and no time. All I know is that he left a little more lucid, his eyes a bit sharper. Grounded.

~

Winters has never done this before; never joined an Officers’ card game that will creep into the small hours. But tonight he walks in as though he’s been doing it every night for a year, touching Nixon’s shoulder as he passes and sitting down on the sofa next to him. He’s encroaching on space that I never realized was so small to begin with.

He looks over and nods. He knows about me and Nixon. Knows that we seek each other out in the dark shadows after a day of death, or in the too bright sun that stings Nixon’s eyes and makes him think he can’t face the day. I don’t know for sure how Winters knows, but my guess is that Nixon told him; Winters gives him absolution for everything. I just know that he’s kept it to himself, which is for Nixon’s sake not mine.

The atmosphere is close and heavy, and it has nothing to do with Nixon’s whiskey, which I swallow quicker than I ever have. And which, unbelievably, Winters is sipping surreptitiously. He doesn’t even have his own glass; Nixon’s given him his, his eyes twinkling as though watching a man take a drink is like witnessing a rare solar eclipse. It’s not the cigarette smoke either, which rises and hangs around our Captain as though that’s where it wants to be.

It’s in the pauses between hands. In Winters’ expression as he watches the elegant way in which Nixon shuffles the cards and deals them with a flick of the wrist. It’s in Nixon’s eyes, black as voids, which can’t help but fall on his friend. As I watch like the outsider I am, I swear Nixon isn’t even aware that he’s doing it. Then he’s leaning in to help Winters’ with his cards - arm around the back of his friend’s shoulders - because Winters has never played this game before. Of course he hasn’t.

Watching them shoulder to shoulder, I wonder if Nixon still smells of my bed. There’s a sadistic pleasure in the thought that Winters will know we’ve just come from there. I’d really like him to know that what goes on between us is far from the nice, kind, loving sex he’d like to imagine. We fuck, and it’s hard and rough, with very little room for emotion. But this also makes Nixon mine and I can’t keep the jealous heat from my eyes as I stare at them. It seems to go unnoticed by both men, and Lipton and Welsh continue to chat amiably.

“What’s to stop someone cheating?” Winters asks softly with a smile. As if he would ever cheat. They’re so close. If he turned now, he’d brush a kiss against Nixon’s cheek.

Nixon chuckles low and leans back so he’s sitting upright. “Good breeding?” he suggests with a teasing smirk.

It puts fire in my belly. Nixon knows full well that I have no reservations about cheating. And that I do it a lot.

I look down at the cards in my hand, half forgotten, and don’t need to be told that my odds are stacked. “Just play,” I snap, raising the whiskey to my mouth.

The laughter stops abruptly and I can feel the heat of everyone’s eyes on me. Winters says nothing and just stares with eyes like steel as though he knows my comment was directed at him. And why. Next to him, Nixon looks at me like I’ve gone insane.

I look down, directing my anger at the cards instead. “You just play with the cards you’re dealt.”

In the gloomy room, Welsh’s bright voice seems out of place. “That was bleak,” he says through a chuckle.

I keep my head down instead of glaring at him. Lipton is looking at me like I’m a seemingly dud grenade that he doesn’t quite trust. The little frown lines of worry that are so often there, and which on occasion I have wanted to kiss away, feel like accusations tonight.

The game starts again with a sort of hesitancy and I look up to see that Winters is the only person still looking at me. My stare says ‘stay away’ and I expect him to look down, but he holds steady, a slightly sad expression on his face. I don’t care for subtle - especially unspoken subtleties that I don’t have the time to work out - but it’s obvious that if he hasn’t already figured out that Nixon is in love with him, he’s certainly on that road. He’s just fooling himself that he doesn’t already know where the road is headed.

~

Hour after hour, touch after touch after touch. Maybe Winters dropping into his world for the evening has given Nixon the courage he needed. And he’s enigmatic, his smiles bright. Eyes pools of black and skin pale in the low light, all winks and slow smirks over the rim of his glass. It makes me want him. To drag him out of the room, pin him to a bed and claim him.

But Winters is making his own sort of claim. He’s far too stoic to take what he really wants, and yet he matches Nixon touch for touch. Admittedly he’s not as brazen, but when their legs touch he keeps them pressed together, lets their fingers brush as he passes Nixon the bottle. And it makes my body coil with anger.

The mindless chatter is suddenly unbearable, the heat in the room choking. When Nixon bumps Winters’ shoulder in delight after he wins the next round, I call it quits. My glass, when I slam it onto the table too hard, makes a thud that startles Nixon back to his own half of the sofa.

Standing up, I let my cards fall. “Deal me out.” I don’t recognize myself when I turn to Nixon and say, “Are you coming?” It’s not really a question.

Welsh and Lipton look at each other in bewilderment because they can’t understand why Nixon would leave with me. I don’t understand it either; this isn’t how we are, but whiskey and envy are a maddening mix.

I can ignore the two men on the other sofa, but I can’t ignore Winters’ knowing look. His mouth, which always looks on the cusp of a curving smile, is solemn nonetheless. The fact that he’s too virtuous to relish in my anger is more annoying than any self satisfied smirk could have been.

I take a deep breath. There seems no point in back tracking now. “Well?!”

Nixon looks at me, incredulous and irate. He shares a glance with Winters, which does nothing but fuel my anger, before feigning a laugh.

“No Speirs, I’m just fine here.” His dark eyes look up at me in warning, his tone edged. “If you’re going to mother someone, it’s probably past Harry’s bedtime.”

The mumble of nervous laughter from Welsh makes me seethe and I can feel the burn of Nixon’s eyes on my back as I walk out.

~

The furniture in my room is stronger than it looks, but the lamp yields to the inevitable when it hits the wall. They’ll hear the crash of my boot against the footlocker, but I don’t care. Let them hear.

I vent until I can’t catch my breath and I crave a nicotine hit. I know my packet is empty and reach for Nixon’s jacket instead; he’s left it on the bed like he’s planning on coming back.

There’s only one cigarette left and I don’t think twice about taking it. As I pull it out I see a crumple of white at the bottom. It’s a thin piece of paper, every bit of space scrawled upon in Nixon’s hand; clearly personal. A man like Winters would fold it back up, replace it and feel guilty about even stumbling across it. I sit on the edge of the bed and read every word. Then I turn it over and read it again, bile churning in my stomach.

A love letter addressed to Winters. For someone undeniably clever, Nixon can be surprisingly stupid. It’s obvious he’d never actually give it to Winters but Nixon’s a fool to even put the words to paper. He knows full well what the brass would do to him if they found this.

I don’t know how I’ve let Nixon get under my skin like this; to the point that I actually care about him and me…and about them. I’m poised to rip the letter up, burn it over a flame, but start down the stairs instead.

~

When I burst back into the room, Lipton and Welsh take one look at me, at each other, and then leave. It’s good to know I still scare someone because Nixon is looking at me with unbridled fury and Winters’ eyes are unyielding.

Then we wait in silence. The three of us, caught in a web of our own making.

I flick the letter into Winters’ lap and I can’t help my humorless laugh when Nixon jumps and makes a grab for it.

I don’t really know why I’m doing this. I want to hurt Nixon for thinking he can fuck me around, but really I just want an end to this.

“Nix, what’s going in?” Winters says standing up quickly, pulling himself and the letter out of Nixon’s grasp. Nixon stands, desperate.

“Read it.”

Nixon’s glare shoots daggers at me. “Shut up,” he mutters darkly. I’ve never heard him speak like that, and apparently neither has Winters because he whips his head around and stares at Nixon in astonishment.

“Lew, what’s wrong?” he asks softly.

Nixon looks pleadingly at his friend. “Dick please, for the love of God, give me that.”

“It’s addressed to me,” Winters says, obviously confused by the whole situation. He glances down at the letter in his hands and Nixon starts forward again. “Nix, this is your handwriting.”

“Please Dick. Trust me. Jesus, just…”

Winters takes another wary step back as Nixon advances, hand moving for the letter again, but I can grab his wrist from here and I push him back. Winters regards the letter once more, and almost against his will, starts reading.

“For Christ’s sake Dick,” he whispers, and I can feel his hot breath on my cheek as he watches Winters in horror over my shoulder. It feels so different to the fan of his breath against my skin this afternoon as he chased his pleasure and mine.

It startles me into regret, but it’s too late now. Nixon knows so too, his body no longer fighting against me to get to Winters and instead pulling back towards the door.

“Hold still,” I tell him.

Nixon’s face is alight with terror and self-disgust, but rage wins through when his eyes land on me. “You had no right Speirs!” His voice is so low it’s almost a growl.

“Nixon, shut up,” I snap. “Just let him read the letter. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

He looks at me like I’ve gone mad.

“You should have just left me out of this,” I add.

He inhales deeply, and his next words are quiet. “I’m sorry Ron, I-”

He drags both hands through his hair in frustration. It would be better on me if he actually had something to be sorry for; bruising a man’s pride probably isn’t a sin.

Focused on Nixon, I’ve forgotten that Winters is in the same room, reading behind my back.

“I-I think I should leave you two to talk,” he murmurs. When I turn he looks wild eyed and amazed. He must read faster than he types because he’s finished and is holding the paper at his side.

At the sound of those words, Nixon’s body goes to move towards him. It’s almost a relief. Perhaps the power to complete the circuit between them has been with me the whole time.

As I leave, I hear Winters’ voice over the pounding of my heart. “Lew, don’t go.” It’s reassuring and gentle, and probably everything Nixon hoped it would be.

~

In the morning the jacket I threw out into the hallway is gone. I avoid them for as long as I can. The secret of my success probably has something to do with the fact that they have been trying to avoid everyone.

Taking a shortcut between buildings the next evening, there’s a light on in Winters’ billet and two shadows. Their bodies are close, leaning in. I imagine Nixon’s hand grasping a glass, other hand pressed to a wall or gripping a table like the pieces of his soul might shatter without the solidity of it; another day of maps, allied secrets and guilt, and everything else that makes Nixon crave a strong foundation.

I picture Winters turning to him with a soft smile - always fond for Nixon – and place his hand in his instead. When jealousy prickles my skin, I remind myself that he was never mine to begin with.

The shadows move. If Winters brushes a kiss to Nixon’s lips, I’m not around to see it.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Occam's Razor: a line of reasoning that says the simplest answer is often correct._  
> 
> This is a very different style for me so I’d love to hear what you think. Please kudos or comment if you enjoyed it.
> 
> Also, feel free to swing by and visit me on Tumblr: little-lottie.tumblr.com


End file.
